


Unexpected

by WitchyBee



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-23 17:57:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4886269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchyBee/pseuds/WitchyBee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The early days of friendship in Haven, and tentative steps toward something more.</p><p>---------</p><p>“I never claimed to have a comprehensive knowledge of Dalish tradition and customs.”</p><p>“Dread Wolf bite your lying tongue, hahren.” The words are harsh but venomless, a fond smile on her lips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Solas learns many things about the prisoner turned prophet as he observes her during their travels.

She is no mage–Solas can scarcely fathom having one’s connection to the Fade completely severed, and knows he is to blame for this–the only magic within her deriving from the mark on her hand. Despite a lack of arcane ability, she aids the Inquisition’s healers by collecting medicinal and restorative herbs, of which she possesses an encyclopedic knowledge.

She is a hunter, first and foremost, yet her face bears the vallaslin of Mythal. She readily agrees to hunt rams on behalf of starving refugees in the Hinterlands.

“Andruil ma ghilana,” she whispers before releasing the bowstring, and then when the arrow strikes true, “Mythal enansal.”

After slicing open the ram’s carcass with practiced ease, she begins cutting away the meat. “You look displeased, Solas,” the Dalish woman remarks without glancing up from her work. “Odd considering I’m the one elbow deep in a dead animal.”

He had not intended to be so transparent, but there’s no backing out now. “You give absent gods undeserved credit for your own skill.”

“It’s ritual more than prayer, like a gambler carrying a token for luck,” she replies thoughtfully, showing no sign of the defensiveness he’s come to expect from the Dalish. “I know the Creators don’t hear us anymore, but words have power–names espectially–even if it only serves to bolster my confidence. Belief is what counts.”

Solas is not entirely persuaded, biased as he is in favor of the truth, but she’s clearly given this a great deal of thought. He respects that.

“Well said.”

\-------------------------------------------------

When they return to Haven, Solas realizes there is one basic detail that he does not know about her.

“It occurs to me that I never asked your name when we.first met, or since,” he says apologetically. “My poor manners shame me.”

“You’re not the only one,” she replies with a wry smile. “Varric calls me Sunflower. At least it’s better than Herald, which everybody else seems to have decided is my new name.”

“Names have power,” he echoes her earlier words. “The title may be a misguided attempt to reconcile these events with their faith, but they are not wrong about your role in things to come.”

“I know. I’m supposed to be the hero. I just wish one person here looked at me and saw...me. Just me. Instead of Andraste’s chosen or a tool to seal rifts.” Her gaze drifts to the mark on her palm, glowing bright and brilliant. “It’s Eirlys, by the way,” she adds. “Eirlys of Clan Lavellan.”

“A beautiful name,” he says before he can stop himself, but she doesn’t seem to hear him. There’s a faraway look in her eyes. “Lethallan?” he asks, slightly concerned.

“What? Oh. Ir abelas. I was distracted.” A blush colors her freckled cheeks. “Josephine asked about my clan earlier. How we lived, if I missed it there, that sort of thing. Now I can’t stop worrying about them.”

“You fear for their safety?”

“More than my own. You know what happens when elves draw attention. That’s partly why the Dalish are nomadic. I have enemies now–nobles, the Chantry, the person responsible for the Breach, and Creators only know who else. So yes, of course I am afraid.”

Solas feels a sharp pang of guilt for that–this is all his fault, however accidentally or indirectly–but he cannot let it show.

“Your clan is in no immediate danger, Eirlys,” he says carefully, not wishing to upset her. “Therefore your primary focus must be on sealing the Breach.”

She nods. “Yeah. You’re right. I-I know that.”

\-----------------------------------------------

Elfroot grows best in mild, temperate regions, not in the Frostback Mountains. But with the Hinterlands more than a day’s ride southeast and more refugees arriving in Haven who are sick or injured, Mother Giselle’s healers must make do.

Which is why Solas and Eirlys are spending another day harvesting every elfroot plant in the Frostbacks.

There are few wild stalks growing here, but the hardy ones that can survive the extreme cold tend to be more potent. The roots and leaves contain healing properties that are very effective in salves and potions.

Solas would usually pass the time by sharing a tale of his journeys in the Fade or teaching her something new about elven history. Today, however, his curiosity gets the better of him.

“Your vallaslin,” he says, watching as she touches the markings on her face self-consciously. “Why have you chosen to honor Mythal?”

“You mean because I’m a hunter and every hunter picks Andruil?”

“I never claimed to have a comprehensive knowledge of Dalish tradition and customs.”

“Dread Wolf bite your lying tongue, hahren.” The words are harsh but venomless, a fond smile on her lips.

It’s always interesting to hear his name invoked for a new reason, particularly when it's directed at him. “I meant no offense,” he says.

“Relax, lethallin, I’m just teasing you.”

“Ah.” Well, it has been a very long time since anyone did that. Of course he would fail to recognized it.

“To answer your question,” Eirlys continues. “We spend weeks, often months, in meditation before undergoing the rite. I knew protecting my clan was my highest priority, whether that meant hunting game so they wouldn’t starve or defending them against attack.” She indicates the long, jagged scar on her cheek. Knife wound.

Solas’ blood runs cold. He’d assumed the scar was the result of an accident–children playing with a daggers, something of that nature.

“Human villagers, drunk and hoping for a fight. They’re dead so you can stop looking like Elgar'nan incarnate,” she says with a shrug. “Anyway, that’s why I chose Mythal. To protect the people I love. I still follow the Vir Tanadhal.”

She stands up, lifting her basket of cut elfroot onto one shoulder. They set off on the long walk back to Haven, footsteps crunching in the snow.

“I think this might be the longest we’ve talked about the Dalish without you grimacing,” Eirlys remarks.

“I think you are correct. Thank you for indulging my curiosity.”

She reaches out and clasps his hand in hers, lacing their cold fingers together. The touch is unexpected. One more way she has effortlessly surprised him. Even more unexpected is how desperately Solas hopes she won’t let go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief reimagining of events leading up to the Fade kiss. Kind of a big time jump here - I might go back and tackle post-in Hushed Whispers but pre-Skyhold stuff later. I also plan to incorporate other companions into this story soon.

Skyhold is in disrepair, its masonry dilapidated by the inexorable passage of time and the countless battles this ancient fortress has seen. Reconstruction efforts are underway, but so far the only noticeable improvement is the garden, which in less than a month has been transformed from a patch of hard earth choked with weeds into fertile land ready for planting. Eirlys had insisted on handling every detail of that process herself.

Solas is, therefore, not surprised to find her working in the garden.

“Inquisitor?” he calls, but she doesn’t respond. The title is still unfamiliar to her ears. “Eirlys?”

“Solas! Halla’s balls, I didn’t hear you approach. You’re so quiet.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.”

“Glad you’re here because I’m curious about something. This climate is perfect for growing most herbs, but it’s freezing outside the walls. Why doesn’t snow ever stick to the ground in Skyhold?”

It is a good question. “There is old magic in these stones. Very old magic. I can sense it; protective wards which also guard against the elements.”

“Elven magic?”

“One assumes, yes. However, Skyhold has been home to a number of forces since the ancient elves. I’ve no doubt the Inquisition will honor that legacy.”

“Yeah. Anyway, did you come to help me? I’m planting elfroot. Can never have enough elfroot, you know,” she says cheerfully, digging her hands into the fresh, dark soil. Something is wrong, he can tell. There is a manic gleam in her eyes. Almost desperate.

Kneeling down beside her, Solas asks calmly, “Why do you need to plant elfroot, lethallan?”

“Elfroot is familiar. Everything’s falling apart and we lost so many people and everyone who is alive depends on me, but it’s unlikely anyone will die as a result of this elfroot.”

Corypheus’ attack on Haven had left the entire Inquisition rattled, and rightly so, but few more shaken than Eirlys is now. Although she saved everyone she could, she feels personally responsible for every death–a guilt he knows all too well–and now the burden of leadership settles heavily upon her shoulders.

Is it any wonder her resolve would crumble beneath that weight?

“I can’t do this, Solas, I can’t. I can’t sleep. Mythal enaste, how am I supposed to focus when I–I–” Her voice falters as she rubs her tired eyes, frustrated tears smudging the eyeliner she borrows from Sera.

“Breathe, Eirlys. What troubles you?” Solas presses gently, taking both her hands in his own.

“There’s, um...really no way to say this without sounding like a child so I’ll just tell you.” Eirlys draws a shuddering breath and whispers, “I’ve been having nightmares.”

Ah, of course. She cannot walk the Fade with the clarity of a Dreamer, nor even a mage. She is at the mercy of her dreams, and if the Anchor is somehow amplifying her nightmares…well, she is a mystery. An anomaly.

“Haven?” he asks.

A nod. She averts her eyes, looking anywhere that isn’t at him.

“There is no shame in that. You have been through a difficult experience,” Solas assures her. “Some theorize that dreams are the unconscious mind’s way of processing emotions. But you need rest If you are to face the trials ahead.”

“Trust me, I’ve been trying for days,” she says with a bitter laugh.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance. With your permission, I could enter your dream and ensure a peaceful night’s sleep.”

Solas tries convincing himself that he offers his help because the Inquisition must succeed and needs its Inquisitor to do so. But another part of him, a part that is selfish and illogical, cares too much about Eirlys to watch her suffer when he can prevent it.

She agrees immediately. Her trust in him is undeserved and frighteningly absolute.

\-----------------------------------------------

The mark on her hand shines brightly in the Fade, beckoning spirits like moths to a flame. It doesn’t take Solas long to find her in the burning rubble of Haven. He reshapes the Fade around them from memory–restores the village as it had been before, undamaged, and empty save for the echoes of lives cruelly cut short.

“Why here?” Eirlys wonders.

“Haven is familiar,” he replies. “It will always be important to you.”

She’s unaware this is the Fade, but remarkably focused for a non-mage; that they can have a conversation while dreaming at all is proof of the mark’s effect on her. Perhaps the Anchor’s magic is drawing him to her the same as the spirits.

Solas doesn’t intend to reveal his feelings for her, but words come easier in the Fade. Or is it just her? She changes everything, and although Eirlys might never fathom the true depths of what Solas means by that, it’s thrilling and terrifying all at once to imagine a world where she could. It could even be this world.

Solas wakes with a start on his couch in the rotunda. The kiss they’d shared had been impulsive, ill-considered, unwise. Pursuing this further would be unfair to himself and certainly unfair to her. A mistake.

And yet...potentially the best mistake he’s ever made in his life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will probably get more lighthearted next chapter.

They encounter a Dalish clan camped on the Exalted Plains. The clan proves to be as suspicious as he would expect, even though the Inquisitor is one of their own people.

Their wariness does not seem to bother Eirlys in the slightest, however, or if it does she hides it well. She freely gives them bushels of spindleweed and elfroot, iron, and several bear pelts. She mends aravels, herds a wild halla to camp, and asks for nothing in return.

Eirlys is different here, Solas notices. More relaxed in some ways, yet strangely subdued as well. Perhaps she misses her life in the Free Marches, when duties were simple and nothing mattered beyond the immediate concerns of survival. He cannot fault her for that.

They clear out the demons infesting Var Bellanaris, a burial site sacred to the Dalish. Later they find the body of a young clan member who, though his intentions were noble, had used magic he could not control.

“We should go,” Eirlys says to their Keeper. “Your clan is in mourning and I’m sure you don’t want strangers around.”

“Stay, da'len. You and your companions are no longer strangers here.”

“Ma serannas, Keeper.” Then, speaking to Solas, she adds, “I haven’t forgotten we came here to rescue your friend. It’s too risky to travel after dark with demons and undead everywhere, but we’ll go at first light. I promise.”

“Thank you,” he replies.

\---------------------------------------------------

Eirlys rises before dawn the next morning to help the clan’s hunters catch and prepare fish for breakfast. Solas wakes early, too, though not by choice. He has not been able to find peace in the Fade since Wisdom was captured. It calls out to him in its distress, louder than ever now.

He joins her by the stream, where she is removing the silvery scales from a fish with her sharp dagger, and humming a Dalish tune he doesn’t recognize as she works.

“I’ve missed this,” she remarks wistfully. “Well, not the dead fish particularly, but...all of it. Halla, the wind blowing through the aravels–” Glancing up from her task for the first time, her expression immediately shifts from contentment to concern. “Solas, you look exhausted. Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he lies. “This area has seen much death and bloodshed. The Veil is thin here, and the Fade a dreamscape of nightmares and demons.”

Eirlys shakes her head with a frown. “The Veil is thin everywhere. I imagine it more closely resembles fancy Orlesian cheese at this point."

"An oversimplification," he protests.

Eirlys waves her free hand dismissively, the other still busy gutting and filleting the fish. "You can’t sleep well because you’re worried about your friend.”

“Yes,” he admits after a pause. It unnerves him at times how effortlessly she can glimpse beneath his mask, even if just briefly.

She sets down her knife and the fish. “I’ll wake Bull, but I may need your help finding Cole.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

“The mages turned your friend into a demon,” Eirlys observes sadly. “Forcing it to kill for them corrupted it.”

Solas is enraged, but her perfect analysis of the situation leaves him momentarily taken aback. “Yes. Well done.”

She bristles at that. “What? Don’t look so surprised. I may not be a mage, but I do listen when you talk about magic and Fade spirits.” She raises her bow and aims for the summoning circle. “We break that, then no more demon. Right?”

“No orders to kill, no conflict with its nature, no more demon,” Solas confirms. “It will be free.”

Even if the price of that freedom is its life.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Flame fills his palms as he turns on the cowering mages, his eyes alight with the savage wrath of the Dread Wolf. They had bound another being to their will, tortured and ultimately corrupted a benevolent spirit older than the Veil itself–one of his oldest friends–and now, because of their unforgiveable ignorance, Wisdom is dead. Another of so many lives he failed to save.

“Solas...” a soft voice reaches out to him through his fury. Eirlys, who kills defenseless creatures out of necessity and with the utmost respect, but does not believe in killing for the sake of revenge. She isn’t afraid of him, even now as he stands here like a vengeful god, the nightmare of Dalish legend.

The fire dies in his hands. “Never again,” he warns the mages. They nod emphatically, their eyes wide.

Shoulders hunched and head bowed, Solas walks away. He cannot face the sympathy in her eyes. It’s worse than fear.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Dusk has fallen over the mountains by the time Solas returns to Skyhold. Eirlys greets him at the gate, ostinsibly taking no notice of the late hour. Her relief is almost palpable.

“I was worried,” she admits. “Where did you go?”

Always curious, he thinks fondly, and answers her with half-truths, as he so often must. He did visit Wisdom’s former dwelling in the Fade, empty now save for lingering echoes of their long friendship and the faintest stirrings of new life in the void.

However, Solas does not mention that first he had prowled the Exalted Plains in wolf form. He had followed the mages’ tracks with ease, a small pack of ordinary wolves in tow, for they instinctively knew his hunt would soon end in blood. Vengeance was swift and merciless; Elgar'nan would have been pleased.

“You don’t have to grieve alone next time,” Eirlys tells him. It is a promise neither of them can truly keep, though for different reasons.

“It’s been so long since I could trust someone,” he confides.

“I know.” She hesitates only a moment before embracing him. The gesture is unexpected. Even more unexpected is how grateful he is for it. Perhaps he can try to let the defenses around his heart fall, if Eirlys doesn’t break through them first.

“Ir abelas,” she murmurs against his shoulder. “We should have left the camp that night. But I was so caught up in my own stupid homesickness and desperate to earn the clan’s favor. I didn't even think I–I’m so sorry.”

He pulls away so she can see the sincerity in his eyes. “It is not your fault. My friend was already beyond saving when they forced it through the Veil. An hour, a day, a week would have made no difference. You did everything you could to help.”

“Some days it feels like anything I do is never enough.” She sighs, tired in a way no amount of sleep can remedy. “And there I go, making it all about me when I’m the one who should be comforting you.”

“You have,” Solas assures her. More than you know, he silently adds.

“What happened isn’t your fault either. You know that, right?” Eirlys asks.

His mask slips, only for a moment, but long enough to reveal the depth of his sorrow.

“I should return to work,” he replies, putting more distance between them. “Good evening, Inquisitor.”

He wants so many things, all of them undeserved. Instead Solas chooses the course of action which is simultaneously the easiest and most difficult, and walks away.

“Pleasant dreams, lethallin,” she calls softly after him.


End file.
